As Long As You're Here
by Xenia van Hausen
Summary: A compilation of the short stories varying greatly in length about the different stages of Alfred's and Arthur's lives as they come together.
1. Almost

**September 10, 2012  
**

_Gosh, I really need to start organizing everything.  
_

_This is just a compilation of all the short, short stories that I write to get back into the hang of things, or as an attempt to improve my writing style, so it'd be great to get prompts, ideas, or input from you!  
_

* * *

**Almost**

**Prompt: **_Voice. __  
_

"Look at all this, Arthur!" He waves his arms out in his trademark animated gesture and looks back at me with soft eyes behind those glasses.

I smile as I walk up to him, the chill of wet grass a wonderful contrast to the already-hot air of eight in the morning. The sun is still rising, the bright yellow glow glimmering off the forming beads of sweat on Alfred's neck. He pretends nothing is there, but there is no way that is comfortable.

"The wind's blowing hard, today, man! Come here," he says as he pats the ground beside him, where he is leaning against the oak tree.

I send him a glare. He laughs as I trudge over to him, his arm held out in wait to wrap around my shoulders. I can't argue that I didn't like it when he pressed a kiss onto my forehead, and I stop myself from asking him another time just why he does all this for someone like me.

He pulls his arm away, and it hurts. It hurts to _know._

"The leaves, all those leaves up there, you see? They're happy. Just like I am right now. The wind blowing between them lets them tell us just how beautiful this world is. Just how beautiful you are."

He takes my hand and kisses it, before squeezing to let it go. My fingers twitch, forcing me to ball them into a tight fist.

"And that lake over there? The water is telling us to take it slow, to enjoy what we have now. It will always be there, and whenever it's too hot, we can always jump in there and laugh and _that _is music. But more than music, I just like to see you smile."

I reach for his hand and weave our fingers together. He watches each motion, and I am only starting to accept the reason behind that smile.

And for the first time, I can almost hear what Alfred describes to me.


	2. Make a Wish

**Make a Wish  
**

**Give Me Hope, Story One  
**

**Overview:** _Part of a series of stories inspired by the "Give Me Hope" posts._**  
**

_11:11 p.m. Great._

Arthur's phone rang. He grumbled at the unexpectedly loud music blaring from his phone's crappy speakers, and patted his hand around, feeling for it. He flipped it open, not caring about who it was, because he had a piece of his mind to give whoever it was.

"'ello? Do you know wha' the bloo'y ti'e it is?" he blearily, half-shouted into his phone. He was too sleepy to muster enough volume to yell.

"Arthur! It's 11:11! Make a wish!" Alfred's voice was way too jolly for such a late time at night.

"„," He called him for that? What time was it…? He wanted to sleep…

"Arthur?"

"…hnn?"

"Arthur! Wish!"

"…di'…." Arthur mumbled into his phone. Darn it, he wanted to sleep. But if Alfred was going to call his name every few seconds, then sweet unconsciousness cruelly slipped from his grasps.

"Yeah?"

"…—ah…yeah," Arthur flipped onto his back, throwing an arm on his forehead and pressing the phone to his ear with his other.

"Well? What was it?"

"Isn't that not the point of making a wish? Isn't it supposed to be kept secret?" He was really tired…

"Aw, you can tell me!"

"It's bloody eleven at night and you're pestering me about a _wish?"_

"Wishes are precious!"

"…nn…"

"Arthur…" Alfred whined.

"I wished that I could go back to sleep," Arthur grumbled.

"What? You couldn't!"

"…wished you were here," Arthur muttered, his eyes refusing to open at all, his fingers ready to close the phone. _…that'd be nice…_

"Well," Alfred drawled out, sounding way too pleased, "Come to the door, babe."

"What?" Not only did he wake Arthur up, but he was going to make him get out of bed, too?

"C'mon, just do it, darling."

Arthur muttered under his breath, something akin to _don't call me darling,_ as he grudgingly swung his legs off the bed and pulled the sheets to the side.

As he unlocked the door and opened it, he wasn't surprised that the American was actually standing outside, but he did wonder why the hell he was there. And why did it look like he was shivering?

"Why in your blasted mind are you standing outside my house?"

Alfred grinned, though his teeth were still clattering, and he produced a box of tea from behind his back.

He looked absolutely ridiculous.

"…What?" God, the passing wind really was cold.

Alfred stepped up and wrapped his arms snugly around Arthur, who hadn't the heart to push him away in his just-awoken state. It had been a long month. And Alfred's arms felt great around him…

"I'm sorry," Alfred said. "I don't really know which tea you like, so I just chose one that a lot of people seemed to like. But I know you hadn't been feeling well lately, so I thought I'd come."

Arthur rubbed his face against Alfred's cold hoodie. "In the middle of the night?" he muttered against the fabric.

Alfred hesitated and smiled ruefully. "Well…I wanted to give you a surprise. And I only got here a few—uh, I just got here, and wanted to know if…you wanted to see me. 'Cause I would've left if you didn't…"

"You got here a few hours ago? In the cold?"

"Well…uh, no."

"You're lying."

Alfred laughed uncomfortably. Arthur squeezed his arms tighter.

"And you were going to stay out here if I ignored you."

"Well…"

"You're a downright idiot."

"If it makes you feel better, then yeah, I am." Alfred hummed happily as he set his chin on the crown of Arthur's head, and after a short silence, he asked, "Can we get inside? I'm freezing here."

Arthur lingered a moment longer, before reluctantly pulling away, and they hurried upstairs to return to bed. For the first time in the last few weeks, Arthur felt content and happy, lying in Alfred's arms and falling back into the sleep he had missed for a while.

Alfred placed a light kiss on Arthur's forehead and mumbled, "Good night, Art."

Arthur fidgeted slightly to get closer to Alfred, and right before he fell asleep, he said, "Thank you…love…"

Alfred caught all of it, and smiled. He would do anything to make Arthur feel better.


	3. According to Plan

_November 18, 2012  
_

**According to Plan  
**

**_Overview: _**_Alfred manages to get Arthur into a Twister game.  
_

Arthur winced as he listened to the ripping of the plastic mat being pulled open. Alfred had spent the last hour begging to play this self-torture excuse of a board game, until Arthur finally relented and the American shot out of his seat to grab the box. Now, he was happily humming to himself as he knelt on the floor, patting the game mat neatly into the carpet as Arthur watched in apprehension.

"O—kay!" Alfred slapped the plastic in triumph, looking up at Arthur in excitement, his eyes gleaming. "Let's play!"

Arthur sighed, and slowly uncrossed his legs. Purposefully avoiding Alfred's eyes, he thought maybe…maybe he could find a way to get out of this.

But he could feel Alfred's eyes locked down on him.

"How did I get myself into this…" Arthur mumbled, more to himself than anything, not noticing the smile that spread across Alfred's lips.

"You know how to play, right?" Alfred reached inside the box to find the wheel, absentmindedly grabbing the instruction manual, examined it, and threw it back inside.

"Supposedly."

Arthur loomed above Alfred, a frown on his face as he stood looking down at the game. He hated how weak he was against Alfred's disappointed eyes. Those glasses did not help. Speaking of which… "Maybe you should take off those glasses before you drop them and step on them." He reached forward, and Alfred was still staring at him with a nauseatingly happy expression.

Once he started pulling them off, Alfred flinched slightly, muttered a "Huh? Oh, yeah…" and chuckled, rubbing the back of his head. "Well, yeah, anyways, let's start!"

Arthur sighed, and the game did go as disastrously as he predicted. Actually, it turned out worse.

"Alfred, _Alfred, _get _off _me!" Arthur gritted his teeth as his legs trembled, as he tried not to fall.

"Shh, Arthur, I'm concentrating!" Alfred slipped his arm between Arthur's legs, eyeing for the red spot in the middle.

"This is highly uncomfortable, I tell you," Arthur growled. His neck hurt from bending for too long in a position it wasn't supposed to stay in, and his arms ached. This was the most exercise he'd ever had in a month.

"Oh—oh—fuck yeah! I should fucking be on the US Olympics!"

"…You do realize that…"

Alfred waited. "Yeah?"

"Your head is practically in between my legs. And my butt is on your back."

Arthur was completely unprepared to be knocked over and gave a screech of surprise. Alfred shook with laughter, his arms wrapped around his waist as he tried to muffle his chokes by hunching into a ball. Arthur's face heated up and all he could do was glare at the obnoxious man, waiting for him to stop laughing. Arthur saw nothing funny in his comment.

"Sorry, sorry," Alfred chuckled, wiping his eyes. "You said that so matter-of-factly that I just couldn't help it."

Arthur didn't move, his glare starting to make Alfred shift uneasily. Arthur felt satisfaction that he didn't know what to do. "You are insufferable," Arthur said before he leaned forward and grabbed a tuft of Alfred's hair and smacked their lips together, slamming Alfred's back onto the floor. Arthur didn't care since he had Alfred to fall onto.

"Mmph!" Alfred whined in shock and pain at hitting the hard floor. He soon relaxed, and Arthur nipped lightly on Alfred's bottom lip.

"Completely insufferable," Arthur breathed, pulling back.

Alfred grinned, squinting up slightly at Arthur's mock-frustrated face. Alfred knew that look, and he knew Arthur just didn't know how to react. He was getting better, but from time to time Arthur would switch back to his irritated demeanor to replace embarrassment. Alfred reached up and caressed Arthur's cheek, slipping his fingers into the messy locks of hair. He placed some pressure on the back of Arthur's head and said, "Come back, I can't see you clearly." Arthur resisted for a second, before letting Alfred pull him down for another kiss.

"You planned this, didn't you?"

Alfred didn't reply, but pressed their lips together again.

"You're an idiot," Arthur mumbled.

Alfred chuckled. "I still got a kiss from you," he said and pulled Arthur back down.

"How many times are you going to do that?"

"Hmm?"

"—I said, —"

"Yeah?"

"—Let—"

"—me—"

This time, Alfred slipped his tongue inside and Arthur felt his insides knot together, forgetting his protest and losing himself in the sensation. Alfred was warm underneath him, and he reveled in the intimacy.

Once they broke apart, Arthur caught his breath and said, "You suck." It was hard keeping a frown on his face.

Alfred grinned up at him. He whispered, "We could go to the bedroom if you want me to do that."

Arthur stared directly into Alfred's eyes, not believing for the first few seconds what he just heard. Then, he proceeded to slap Alfred on the shoulder as reprimand, only to lean back down to speak into Alfred's ear.

Alfred couldn't scramble to get up fast enough.


	4. City Boy

_June 29, 2012_

* * *

**City Boy  
**

**_Overview:_**_They met once, one from the city and another from the countryside._**  
**

He was a city boy. I was a country bumpkin. We never should have become like this.

"I love how quiet it is," he said.

I looked at him and lost myself in his green eyes, forgetting that he was not meant for this. He was meant for bigger things, for wearing a suit on the top level of a New York building, for driving a red Corvette down the streets of L.A., for flirting with girls in strapless dresses and high heels at a five-star hotel party.

Not this; not my rustic accent, not the smell of cut grass and manure and freshly baked apple pies, not the endless expanse of plains and trees and nature, not the runs over to the river and the naps on the hay, not the secret meetings behind the barn.

We met on a mild summer day when he pulled up and said he was lost. We were both 18 years old. The lack of city lights and squished houses of city life made him uncomfortable. I said, "Come in fer a drink and I'll give ya the directions." He looked hesitant. All city folks do when they come up. They live in lies, crimes, and suspicion. We live on instincts and faith. "I'm not gunna kill you and take your money, relax. Never experienced some country life b'fore, have ya?"

He came in and we talked. And talked. The sun had set and he looked up and groaned, "Oh, bloody time…I haven't even found a roadside inn yet. Do you—"

"Just stay here tonight. I'm sure mah old man won't mind."

We looked at each other and knew what was going to happen.

We snuck out at midnight to the river bank and fell and laughed and stared and couldn't get away from each other. This happened every summer he had come back to visit.

His lips were chapped and rough and he knew much more than me as he slipped his tongue in my mouth and easily took control of me. "This place is beautiful," he murmured onto my skin.

I was breathless and panting and his hand slid all over my body. "Then stay," I mumbled, thinking he wouldn't have heard. When he froze, I knew he did. My heart almost stopped.

"Al, you know I can't." He held himself up by his arms, palms on the grass by the sides of my head. Looking into his serious eyes, I knew it was a mistake. I didn't want to hear the regret in his voice. I didn't want to see the sadness in his eyes. I didn't want to feel the guilt and borderline pity from his touches.

We didn't speak and he kissed me again: slow, languid, and full.

His hand slipped under my clothes and a strong desire overtook me. I shivered and squirmed as he laughed softly, trailing his palm over each inch of my rough skin, in contrast to his softer, smoother hands.

We became a panting mess of hushed groans, whispered nonsense, and tugs of pleasure. After what seemed like an eternity and yet was also just a mere second, it all ended. Breathless, he lay beside me in the grass, wet with dew. Eyes shut, trying to catch my breath, I felt his mouth against my neck as he murmured, "Come with me…to the city."

I didn't reply, only ran my fingers through his messy shock of hair. We lay there until the sun came up and he cupped my cheek, gave me a long look, and kissed me lightly.

We didn't say good-bye, didn't say "see you later," didn't hug.

As I lay there, tears trickled down the side of my eyes, tickling my ear. I stayed there for a long time, possibly too long. The whole time, I wondered if he had cried, too. I hoped he did, because then at least it'd mean he felt as horrible as I did.

We shouldn't have met, shouldn't have become that close. He was a city boy; I was a country rustic. We couldn't leave either of our drastically different lifestyles for the other. We shouldn't have become like that.

I never saw him again, never heard from him. That was, until six years later, when a postcard came in the mail for me, with only two things scribbled on the back in his meticulous, cursive writing:

_17 June_

I stared, my heart pounding like those times his skin touched mine, my legs and hand shaking.

We met on a mild summer day when he pulled up and said he was lost. I would wait for him on the empty dirt road as he pulled up in his old Acura, shades on his pale face. Every summer since we met, on the seventeenth of June.


End file.
